


Bogeyman

by Judin



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M, Major dub-con, Mohinder is a brave munchkin, Psychological Torture, Season 1, Sylar is evil, Torture, Violence, mylar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judin/pseuds/Judin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylar survives Kirby Plaza with only an injured shoulder, and when he leaves, he takes Mohinder with him, intent on making him recreate the list. Mohinder has no intention of helping Sylar commit more murders, but when Sylar asks, is No even an answer?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bogeyman

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in 2010. By now it is as polished as it will ever be, so I decided to post it rather than let it gather dust for another three years.

Kirby Plaza had a haunted quality to it when it was empty. Sylar was sitting on the edge of the fountain, with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He admired the clean lines of the towering structures around him, while listening and waiting for Petrelli. Behind the sound of running water he could hear the people in the buildings around him. His interest was piqued when he realised that there was a great commotion going on in on one building in particular. Men were swarming the top floor, moving downwards in an organised fashion, shouting to each other and into walkie talkies. Someone had been murdered in the penthouse. But it wasn’t until he caught a man talking on his cell phone that the interest became something more than casual.

_“Mr. Bishop? Agent Stanson. Mr. Linderman has been murdered. That’s right, sir. We’re on his trail, sir, he’s as good as caught. Yes, sir, that’s why I’m calling. As chairman, you’ll be updated as often as ... yes, sir. Yes, Mr ... Yes, Bob. Sure. I’ll call again when we have our man.”_

Sylar made a quick, auditory sweep of his surroundings, but Petrelli was still nowhere around, so he focused on the building again. On a higher floor, a man was groaning in pain, and moving towards him were a woman and a child, talking anxiously. Other than them and the guards, there seemed scarcely to be people in the building. Except for -

_“-he believes that Sylar – that the Bogeyman is on his way.”_

“Hello, Mohinder,” Sylar mumbled, smiling to himself in surprised delight.

_“No. He’s not on his way. He’s already here.”_

It made Sylar shiver deliciously to hear Mohinder’s heartbeat stutter in fear. Never mind how the little girl knew he was here, or how they had known he was coming.

He got up quickly and crossed the square in an easy run. He hoped that Petrelli would take his time getting here. An additional part to his plan was forming in his head, an impulsive, but delicious part.

The door was easily forced, the night watchman easily killed and the alarm stopped. Other guards would be responding soon, he could hear them in the basement, but that was okay. Sylar took an elevator, using the two familiar voices as a guide.

His anticipation mounted as he entered a sterile hallway and neared the right door.

_“Mohinder, he’s right outside.”_

_“It’s alright, Molly, hide under the bed, he won’t hurt you.”_

Inside, drawers were opened and frantically searched through. Sylar stopped just outside the door, breathing deeply of the fear seeping through the cracks. Then he concentrated and shoved the door violently off its hinges. It hit the floor with a bang that was echoed by a gun fired several times in rapid succession. 

The bullets stopped in the air, inches from Sylar’s chest. He looked down at them, and then up at Mohinder, who was still aiming the gun, but whose wide eyes said that he knew it was pointless.

“That’s not very welcoming,” Sylar said reproachfully. He let the bullets fall to the floor. With a flick of his wrists he sent the gun flying and with another he pulled Mohinder’s legs from under him, making him sprawl painfully on his back. Sylar came around the desk and leaned over the Indian. “You should be flattered. I put destiny on hold to come see you.” He looked over at the curtains behind which he could hear a frightened little heart beat. “And your patient.” The clock was ticking in his head again, saying that it was time. Time to understand. Impatiently, Sylar abandoned Mohinder, walking over to the curtain and grabbing it to pull it away.

“No!” Mohinder scrambled to his feet and threw all his weight at Sylar, making them both tumble to the floor. The Indian got two good punches in before Sylar managed to throw them over and land on top. He mentally restrained Mohinder’s wrists to the floor and took a moment to touch his bruised jaw.

“You hit hard for a Professor.”

Mohinder bucked underneath him, glaring furiously. “Leave Molly alone!”

Sylar cocked his head to the side, playfully supporting more of his weight on the Indian’s hips and crushing the air out of him. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” He looked around until his eyes fell on a big white box meant for hazardous material. How appropriate. “I’ll have to put you on ice for a while.”

He increased his mental hold on Mohinder to greater parts of his body before getting up and removing the lock on the box’s lid.

“But there’s already a body in there!” Mohinder twisted wildly when Sylar tried to lift him, panic giving him strength and making him completely unmanageable.

“Stop squirming! You’ll have something soft to lie on while I work.” He’d ask about the body later; had to be an entertaining story. Frustrated out of patience, Sylar straddled Mohinder and punched him, hard. The Indian went limp, stunned by the blow, finally allowing Sylar to haul him up.

“Please, Sylar,” Mohinder began to beg, even as he was lowered into the box. “Don’t do this! She’s just a child!”

Sylar smiled down at him. “And I’m the Bogeyman.”

The lid came down. The lock clicked into place.

“I’ll do anything! Please! Sylar, don’t hurt her!”

Sylar didn’t reply, turning to the curtain instead, where the racing heartbeat was now accompanied by smothered sobs.

~‘’~‘’~

Mohinder was paralyzed by fear. Trapped in the small black space, he could feel the contours of Thompson’s body beneath him, already growing stiff and unyielding. He couldn’t breathe.

And then Molly screamed, and the corpse became the last thing on his mind.

“Molly! MOLLY!” Mohinder shoved at the lid, kicked at it, twisted to shove Thompson away and give himself more room, bruised his shoulder again and again trying to force the box open, but the lock held. He didn’t stop trying, though, not even when the screams died down at last, becoming whimpers before growing entirely silent. Mohinder continued to scream her name even as tears gathered in his eyes. He kicked at the lid until his knees grew numb. He could see her smiling face and feel her little note with the yellow star burn in his pocket. Helplessness and inevitability tore at him. Had he seriously thought he could protect her or hide her from Sylar?

And then the lid opened suddenly, smoothly, and the Bogeyman himself loomed over him, his hands covered in blood and his eyes black like death. Mohinder sobbed, grief warring with denial. The stench of blood filled his nostrils, overpowering, making him gag.

“Come on,” Sylar said gently, reaching down.

Mohinder recoiled with a shout from the bloodstained hands, his eyes falling shut in horror when they closed around his upper arms, pulling him up.

“She was just a child. She was just a child,” he blabbered, falling to his knees when his legs wouldn’t support him.

“And now she’s an angel,” Sylar whispered soothingly, urging Mohinder towards the door. “And there are men with guns coming this way so we really need to go.”

He had pulled the curtains shut again, mercifully sparing Mohinder the sight of the mutilated body, but there were bloody handprints on them, and Mohinder couldn’t stop looking back at them over his shoulder.

“I told her you would never … that I wouldn’t let anyone ... She trusted me.”

Half physically, half telekinetically, Sylar dragged Mohinder out of the room, supporting him so he could keep his feet, pushing him forward to make his feet move.

When Mohinder thought back, he could hardly remember how they got out of the building. He had walked in a daze, guided by Sylar, down some stairs and then through a hallway and into an elevator. Sylar had leaned them both against the wall, too close to each other, as casual music played them down to the ground floor. But he remembered feeling sharply frightened when the other man’s warm and solid body was pulled away from his. He expected violence to explode between them at any moment, only to be dragged outside by the arm instead.

Finally, cold night air enveloped them and shocked his system out of its paralysis. Peter Petrelli and Noah Bennet were waiting in the middle of the Plaza. Sylar saw them, inhaled deeply and mumbled, “Ah, destiny,” in an amused tone. Then he helped Mohinder sit down against a pillar, and crouched down in front of him.

Mohinder shuddered when the murderer ran a hand down his cheek and tucked a curl behind his ear. “Don’t be sad, Mohinder. I haven’t really begun hurting you yet.” Fingers lifted his chin up, and then Sylar leaned in and pressed their lips together gently. Soft, hot, and shocking to his frayed nerves. Mohinder endured it with tightly shut eyes until Sylar let go and left to meet his waiting adversaries.

Afterwards, Mohinder would struggle to recall precisely what had happened next. Sylar and Peter had fought, and at some point a blonde woman had interfered, wielding a parking metre, but surely he had dreamt up that part. Then a young Asian man had popped out of nowhere with a katana (Was he Peter’s mysterious messenger from the future?), rushing Sylar with a cry.

Sylar, somehow caught by surprise, had thrown up a hand, mentally forcing the sword off to the side, but he had been too late; it cut through his jacket at the right shoulder, sinking into his flesh. With a groan of pain, the Bogeyman had fallen to his knees, and the Asian had lifted the sword again for the finishing blow, but this time Sylar was faster, flinging him away. The young man disappeared the same way he had come, into thin air. Mohinder must have been half asleep.

Then there had been gunshots and Matt Parkman appearing from behind a pillar, gun raised and tears running down his face. “You killed Molly!”

The bullets had hung in the air between him and Sylar, motionless, before clattering to the ground.

How did Matt know? Had he seen? No, read, read Mohinder’s mind, or Sylar’s.

Sylar had raised his good hand and lifted Parkman telekinetically, slamming him into a pillar, knocking him unconscious.

And then Peter Petrelli had begun to glow brighter and brighter, out of control. Mohinder had closed his eyes and seen Molly’s smiling face against the darkness of his closed eyelids.

~‘’~‘’~

Noah Bennet pulled his daughter closer as the sky exploded with a deafening bang and lit up the plaza like a summer day. As the explosion faded, darkness rushed back in to once again greedily possess its favourite corners, and the space between the pillars.

“Where did they go?” Niki Sanders whispered, but no one answered, because no one knew.

Claire wept, for although Peter might have survived, Nathan did not have the ability to regenerate. Had he really given his life for them all?

Matt Parkman woke with a groan, and immediately ran for the Primatech building. Was Molly really dead? If so, Noah didn’t know what to feel about it. He looked around. And realised that someone was missing.

“I don’t want to alarm anybody,” he said, loudly enough for Sanders and Hawkins to hear as well, “but Sylar is gone.” Between the sudden urgency of Peter’s condition and the arrival of Claire and Nathan, allowing Sylar to crawl away from the spotlight had seemed a necessary evil. “And so is Suresh.”

Sanders bit her bottom lip. “You mean the Indian?” She glanced at her son before disentangling herself from her family and coming over to Noah and Claire. She kept her voice low. “Look, I don’t know if it means anything, but when we came outside I saw them sitting together by that pillar, and ...” She hesitated for a moment. “I saw them kiss.”

Noah actually had to do a double take. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

“I know what I saw.” She frowned, offended. “It was dark, but Sylar definitely kissed the other guy before going to talk to you and ...” she struggled for the name. “Peter.”

Claire’s mouth was hanging open, but at least the tears on her cheeks were drying. “Sylar in love? I just can’t see it.”

Noah shook his head. “If what you saw is right, then Doctor Suresh is in trouble. He probably didn’t leave on his own.”

Claire squared her shoulders, stepping out of her father’s arms. “I’ll look around; see if there’s a trail. Sylar was hurt, so he can’t have gotten far.”

Noah swallowed fear and didn’t protest, but sent her running off into the shadows with a nod. She had the determined expression on her face that means she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she could take care of herself. It was time he accepted that. Besides, it was vital that they didn’t lose Sylar, and between the wounded shoulder and a struggling Mohinder, he really couldn’t have gotten far.

Now there was a mystery, though. Why had he taken the extra risk? That Sylar might have a deviant sexuality didn’t surprise Noah in the least, and Mohinder was beautiful by anyone’s standards, but Sylar was a sociopath: completely selfish with a one-track mind. If this was only about lust or even love, he would have returned later to find Suresh again, putting his own safety first for the time being. No, Sylar had to have a second agenda, something else he wanted the Doctor for, something important and urgent enough for him to take such a risk. But what?

Claire returned out of breath and without news, just as the ambulance arrived. There was no blood to follow, and no shouts or footsteps to be heard. They were gone.

And so there was nothing else to do but sit still and let the paramedics do their thing. Until Noah caught sight of a familiar face among the police officers, who had not been far behind on the scene.

“Excuse me, Detective Hanson, can I speak with you for a moment?”

The blonde FBI agent turned in surprise at hearing her name and approached Noah with a sceptical look on her face. “Mr. Bennet. I’m not sure if I should be surprised to see you here.”

Noah waved away the paramedic, so that he could talk in private with the detective. “My involvement in this is not important. What is important is that Sylar was here, and that he is running away from the scene as we speak, with a stab-wound in his right shoulder, and a hostage. A male, mid thirties, Indian.”

She pursed her lips as if considering whether to trust him or not, but he could tell that she was already sold and itching to run off after the murderer. She moved restlessly, but didn’t want to appear to be too easily bossed around, so she forced herself to settle more firmly on one hip, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sylar doesn’t do hostages. Anything special about this Indian guy that would make him change his pattern?”

She was better than he had given her credit for, despite being so easy to read.

“No, nothing special, but he’s involved with Sylar up to his neck. Go to a bookstore and find Chandra Suresh in the paranormal section. The hostage is his son. Suresh senior unwittingly helped Sylar discover his murderous nature.”

She looked frustrated, and Noah didn’t blame her; chasing a murderer with paranormal abilities without anywhere to go for information or understanding, and without access to the big picture, had to be hell. He almost wanted to send her to the Company, just to give her the resources she needed. She could have done some real good there. Except that Bennet had no intention of helping the Company ever again.

Finally, Hanson nodded, satisfied. “Don’t go anywhere, I want to talk some more.” She ran off, shouting for backup and a car.

Noah rose and made his way over to Claire, who was sitting on the edge of the fountain.

“You told them about Sylar?” she asked as he sank stiffly down next to her.

“Detective Hanson is already on his case, so I thought she might appreciate the tip.”

Claire nodded thoughtfully. “Do you think she’ll catch him?”

Noah smiled tightly, without joy. “Not tonight. Even wounded, he’s too powerful, and they’ll have to find him first.” He sighed. “I just wish I knew what he wants with Suresh. I’m convinced that there is a second angle to this, no matter what Niki Sanders saw. And it might reveal where they’ve gone.”

Claire shivered, and Noah quickly shrugged off his jacket and helped place it over her shoulders.

“Poor Doctor Suresh,” she said. “He must be so scared.”

“Mohinder is strong and brave, and he’s gotten the better of Sylar before.” Noah tried to smile reassuringly at his daughter. “He’ll hang in there until we can get to him, don’t worry.”

~‘’~‘’~

They ran through empty, desolate streets of dark blue, and through pockets of yellow light underneath street lamps. Sometimes a voice would shout from far away, or a car would drive past somewhere ahead, but they didn’t meet anyone.

Sylar gripped Mohinder’s wrist with one hand and clutched his bleeding shoulder with the other, now and then growling or cursing under his breath. He was furious.

Mohinder stumbled along behind him, sick and angry and grieving, for Molly and Peter and Nathan. He waited, aware that he was outmatched and needed to be smart about escaping. After several blocks, Sylar finally slowed, swaying as the blood loss caught up with him. Mohinder didn’t waste a moment, jerking lose from Sylar’s grip, shoving him roughly forward and sprinting in the other direction.

_Get around the corner, get around the corner!_

He needed to get out of sight before – Telekinetic hands jerked him into the air by his feet. He tumbled around and hit the ground on his back, groaning and curling in on himself to endure the wave of pain that rolled through his body. Moments later, Sylar’s fast footsteps were catching up with him. A brutal hand grabbed his curls and hauled him to his feet.

Sylar’s brows were pulled down in a thunderous expression. “Considering that neither of us has had the best night so far, I suggest we both do our part to keep things civil from now on.” Once again, he began to drag Mohinder down the street, by his neck this time.

They reached a stairway down to the subway, and Sylar finally let Mohinder go, but before they descended he pulled him close roughly by the arm. “Don’t try to run again.”

He didn’t need to threaten. Mohinder knew what he was capable of.

On the way down, Sylar tore a strip of silk from the inside of his coat and tied it around his shoulder to stem the flow of blood. Then he dumped the coat and demanded Mohinder’s to hide his injury from curious onlookers.

The subway was crowded compared to the streets, but Mohinder kept his eyes down and let Sylar guide him with subtle telekinetic hands, until they were standing pressed together in a stuffy car on their way from Manhattan to Queens. Sylar whispered threats of violence and murder into Mohinder’s ear, his soft lips brushing against the sensitive shell and his breath stirring Mohinder’s curls.

~‘’~‘’~

The Company was run with ruthless efficiency. Daniel Linderman died, and half an hour later, everyone knew that Bob Bishop was the new man in charge.

A couple of hours after the incident on Kirby Plaza, an alarm began to beep from the computer in Bob’s office. Since he was alone, he didn’t bother to mask his urgency going from the shelf where he was arranging photographs, to the chair behind his desk.

He moved his mouse to the pop-up on the screen and clicked, prompting the computer to bring up a live feed from surveillance camera 24399523, long inoperative. 

“That son of a bitch didn’t even try to hide.”

“How come you get to say stuff like that when I don’t?”

Loving daughter Elle stood in the doorway, examining her nails.

Her father, startled by her sudden appearance, frowned. “Because I know when it’s appropriate, and I only do it in private.” He put some extra pressure on the final word to remind her that he liked her to knock before entering. It was one of the boundaries that he had placed on their relationship as a condition for allowing her to work as an agent; she had been given the job on his authority, and he was doing his best to keep their interaction professional during work hours, for the sake of the other agents’ opinion.

Elle took no visible notice of her father’s annoyance, flouncing over to him. “And why is it appropriate now?” She perched on the desk and cocked her head to the side, smiling sweetly.

Bob sighed, but it was too much trouble to hide it from her, and when it became time to interfere, she might very well be the one he sent. It would be a good test of her professionalism and loyalty to have her deal with Gray again.

“Sylar just entered his old apartment.” He turned the screen around so that she could see.

“Hello, you,” she mumbled, some of the cheer falling from her expression. On screen, Sylar was rummaging through drawers and cabinets, using telekinesis to spare his injured shoulder. He had banished his unwilling guest to the corner furthest from the door.

“So,” Elle said. “Should we go get him, then?”

Bob leaned back in his chair. “... Not _just_ yet. If I have guessed Sylar’s plan right, he is about to do us a great favour.”

Elle’s eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment. “And Mohinder?”

“Well, it’s up to him what happens next; if he cooperates, we will be able to step in and save him in no time.”

And he would cooperate. Sylar had ways.

~‘’~‘’~

“You’ve probably figured out by now that I brought you here for a reason.” Sylar spoke, without stopping his exploration of the apartment’s various cupboards and cabinets.

Mohinder didn’t reply. He was sitting in the corner where he had been placed, with his knees drawn up.

The wound didn’t seem to be slowing Sylar down much, but his face would sometimes contort in pain for just a moment, so he wasn’t immune. He would need to have it stitched, and that might afford Mohinder with a chance to escape.

“I took you with me so you could replicate the list.”

Mohinder’s head shot up. “The list? That was lost when you and Peter fought in my apartment.”

Sylar smiled down at him, waggling his finger. “Don’t try that, Doctor. You’ll recall the keys you found with my DNA, and even if you can’t, there’s plenty more spinal fluid for you to extract. I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

“But I’ll need a computer, and I don’t know what program my father used for the formula, and-” He stopped himself when Sylar frowned, the other man’s face darkening in a frightening way.

For several long seconds, Sylar just studied his hostage. Then he spoke, his voice low. “You’re a smart man, so you know about those parts of the body that are obsolete, like the pinky toes and the appendix. Now, hypothetically, if I removed your pinky toes, what would you need to make the list?”

Mohinder’s throat tightened and he had to cough before he could speak. “Like I said, I’d need a laptop, and some program that I’m not fam-”

Sylar leaned in over him, making Mohinder press himself further into the corner. “If I removed your appendix right now, would it help you remember which program you need?”

Mohinder swallowed, but he pushed himself up along the wall until he was standing, forcing Sylar to lean back again. His heart was pounding and his chest was constricted by fear, but he was still so furious, still hearing Molly’s laughter in his head, and it made him brave. “I won’t help you murder innocent people.”

“Don’t you mean _more_ innocent people?” In his black shirt, Sylar looked like one of the devil’s angels, still standing taller than Mohinder, and raining his mistakes down on him like stones, with a deceptively gentle smile on his face. “You took me to Dale, and you showed me your father’s list even after you’d figured out my true identity, which led me to Isaac Mendez and his precognition, and now there’s Molly, whom you cured so I could have her ability unspoiled by the virus.”

Rage exploded in Mohinder’s chest, bursting the grip of fear. He slammed his fist into Sylar’s injured shoulder. Sylar roared in pain and Mohinder ran for the door, but his fingertips barely graced the doorknob before he was violently yanked backwards by Sylar’s telekinesis. He hit the wall and slumped on the floor, dazed from the blow to the back of his skull.

“That …” Sylar growled, jaw clenched against the pain, “was stupid.” He clutched his shoulder, but used the other hand to force Mohinder back to his feet telekinetically. Like a puppet on a string, the Indian was moved over to the mirror that hid the entrance to the secret room. Mohinder watched with horrified fascination as his own hand rose and pressed against the mirror, making it fold and slide away. Sylar forced him inside, flicking the light switch as they passed it. There was no change from the last time he was here; there was no map, no collection of jars and other disturbing mementoes, and hardly any shelves, but the black plastic curtain hung in the same place, hiding the little room where the walls had once been covered with the mad scribbles of a young murderer consumed by guilt. As he was pushed through the curtain, Mohinder could almost sense the enduring presence of the words, faded by scrubbing and locked away behind a single layer of paint. But Sylar was done with them. He no longer felt remorse.

Crowded by two people, the room seemed claustrophobically small. Mohinder turned to Sylar, wonder what would come next. Sylar considered him for a moment.

“Take your clothes off.”

That was not what the Indian had expected to hear. “What?”

Sylar rolled his eyes, seeing the other man’s sudden trepidation. “I need something to tie you up with.”

It was actually relieving, compared to the alternative. Not that Sylar’s eyes didn’t roam hungrily over Mohinder’s body as it was slowly revealed.

He didn’t dare catch Sylar’s eyes with his own, in case that which they had not spoken out loud would be said by a shared look. He never ever wanted to acknowledge what had grown between them on their trip to Montana, or how it had endured despite everything, partly because of Sylar’s lack of respect for Mohinder’s personal space, and partly because Mohinder was weak. It was grotesque, this desire. A physical need that went against all his feeling, all his intelligence.

“How much do you need?” Mohinder asked, a little annoyed, when all he had left were his pants.

“Don’t stop,” Sylar replied, a little breathlessly.

Mohinder closed his eyes for a moment, praying for strength before quickly shrugging out of his pants and kicking them over to the pile of the rest of his clothes. “That’s it,” he said stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest uncomfortably. “You can’t tie me up with my briefs.”

Sylar chuckled. “Fine, keep them.” He picked up Mohinder’s green sweater. “Turn around, face the wall and put your hands behind your back.”

Behind him, Mohinder could hear Sylar telekinetically shredding one of his favourite sweaters.

“What happens now?” he asked, although he didn’t want to know the answer.

“Now, I go shopping, while you stay here and think about whether you want to cooperate right away, or if you’re going to make me persuade you.”

Mohinder stood still as his hands were tied behind his back. Then a strip of cloth was placed over his eyes, and the world became dark.

Sylar left and silence was given reign, except for the words whispering behind their layer of paint.

_Forgive me. Forgive me._

_Molly, forgive me._

~‘’~‘’~

He heard Sylar come back and leave again several times, with lots of rummaging in between. Sometimes he was gone for long, sometimes just a few minutes. In the end it amounted to at least a couple of hours. Mohinder was intensely relieved when the footsteps finally came closer; he was aching and shivering from being left on the cold, hard floor.

But even prepared, he still jerked back when Sylar’s hands closed around his shoulders. Sylar removed the blindfold and pulled Mohinder with him back into the apartment, which had undergone a bit of a change in the past few hours. Two mattresses were stacked against one wall, the kitchen counter was covered with useful items like soap and food, and in the middle of the room there now stood a table and two chairs. A laptop on the table had been booted up and shone invitingly. Mohinder was promptly pushed over to the chair in front of the computer and sat down on it.

Sylar pulled up the other chair and sat down facing Mohinder. He leaned forward and clasped his hands in front of him. “I understand that the task at hand seems somewhat repulsive to you, which is why I have come up with various methods of persuasion that I thought we could try.”

Mohinder shifted on the chair, feeling naked and wishing his hands were free. “Torture.”

Sylar grinned. “Torture.” He put a hand on the raised lid of the laptop. “Or, you can do this thing for me and then I’ll let you go.”

Mohinder’s couldn’t meet his eyes, not when the honest entreating in them was so reminiscent of Zane Taylor. “I won’t help you hurt anyone else.”

Sylar moved the chair closer, leaning in. “Mohinder, with or without that list I am still going to keep killing. It’s my nature. I can’t help it. You’re only helping me organise my schedule.”

“I’ve heard your excuses before. They’re insane.”

Sylar closed his eyes and sighed. “Alright.” He leaned back in his chair again. “In that case I am going to torture you until you give in. We’ll do it in stages. You can make it stop at any time by using our safeword.”

Mohinder stared at the laptop, his body trembling. Every beat of his heart spread fear like blood through his veins. “I won’t give in,” he whispered.

“Yes, you will,” Sylar maintained, rising from his chair and pulling Mohinder out of his. He picked up a plastic bag of recently purchased content from the floor before ushering his captive back into the back room.

“And by the way, Doctor, the safeword is “Montana”.”

~‘’~‘’~

Perhaps days had passed. Mohinder couldn’t tell. He got some small satisfaction from knowing that his blood was all over Sylar’s clothes. It was brighter in the apartment now. Dawn must be near. Sylar was carrying him, weaving his way past furniture and plastic bags. Did they all contain hooks and rope? Wait, no, that was silly; Sylar only needed the one to suspend Mohinder from. Maybe there was food? Mohinder was hungry. His throat hurt, but it was insignificant pain, nothing compared to everywhere else.

Sylar entered the bathroom and placed Mohinder on his feet long enough to discard his bloodied briefs before helping him into the bathtub. The Indian looked down on his own naked body in the glaring light, but the cuts were obscured by blood so he couldn’t count them. Sylar removed his own stained shirt and pants, chuckling when he noticed Mohinder averting his eyes. Then he pulled down the shower head and turned on the water, testing it until it ran with a bearable temperature. Mohinder noticed that the shoulder wound was stitched up. Had the wanted man actually gone to a hospital or had he done it himself? Or perhaps kidnapped some poor doctor and forced him to perform the simple procedure?

Then he had to close his eyes as Sylar ran the soft beam of water over his face, wiping tear tracks and sweat. He soaked Mohinder’s hair before moving down to his shoulders and chest. Despite the aching in his limbs, the Indian raised his hands and grabbed weakly at Sylar’s wrists, trying to stop him.

“I’ll do it,” he croaked.

Sylar shook his head, his mouth quirking up at the corner. “Maybe this is part of the torture.”

“I won’t say it,” Mohinder mumbled. “Won’t use the safeword.”

That got him a full smile. “No, you won’t. I was really impressed by you tonight. I didn’t think you’d hang in there for so long.”

The praise shouldn’t feel good.

Sylar helped Mohinder sit up, and washed his back. The water running down the drain was all red, and as the blood disappeared, the cuts were revealed, crisscrossing on the Indian’s dark skin. They were shallow, but stung and throbbed. Stage one, Sylar had called it.

Mohinder was glad when he got to lie back down; he was dizzy and sleepy. He turned his face away and closed his eyes when Sylar moved lower, washing his thighs and then moving between them, telekinetically spreading Mohinder’s legs. Wondered if, should he look up, he’d see his dignity running down the drain along with the blood. He shuddered and clenched his fists against the boldly intimate touched, but Sylar was making little crooning noises, soothing and admiring all at once.

“I don’t know what you’re ashamed of, Doctor; you’re bigger than me.”

When he moved on it was a surprising kindness, one that made Mohinder look up for some sign of ... something, but Sylar was too focused on his work, cleaning Mohinder’s ankles and feet.

The rest of the shower passed quickly, mostly because Mohinder was beginning to nod off. Finally, Sylar hung up the shower head and helped the Indian rise from the tub.

Mohinder held on to Sylar’s arms in an attempt to create some distance between their bodies. Sylar’s boxers were the only thing separating them. Sylar was of a different idea, though, even nuzzling Mohinder’s ear when the other man turned his head.

“Do you need to use the toilet before we sleep?”

Mohinder recoiled, fighting the impulse to scream, but the need was there, and he couldn’t stand on his own, he would have to swallow the revulsion and just ...

He nodded.

By the time they moved from the bathroom, Mohinder was asleep on his feet and completely, utterly humiliated. 

Sylar brought one of the mattresses into the secret room. Where the replicated map had once stood there was blood everywhere, and a rope still hung from a hook in the ceiling. The mattress then was placed in the other room, behind the black curtain.

Mohinder sank gratefully down on his bed for the night. He was still bleeding from a few of the cuts, but more slowly, and he was too tired to worry about it. Sylar was gone for a moment before returning with a blanket and a pillow. After tucking his captive in, he knelt down next to him and stroked his hair affectionately.

“We’ll move on to stage two later today. I’m thinking about breaking your ribs. Might give you half an hour in between. That way we’ll have hours of fun to look forward to.”

Mohinder fell asleep before Sylar was done speaking. If he hadn’t, he might have howled in fear.

He slept fitfully, waking at the smallest noise and lying frozen to listen for footsteps. How long would he be allowed to rest? And then exhaustion would pull him under once more, and he’d be haunted by freakish dreams. Sylar’s victims paraded before his inner eyes, carrying their brains in plastic bags. Molly’s brainless corps threw her arms around him and laughed.

When the light finally came on and Sylar pulled away the curtain, Mohinder was almost glad. At least in this waking nightmare, nothing was unexpected. There would be breakfast, and then there would be pain.

Sylar had made them cereal. Mohinder kept his blanket around himself for modesty, more aware of his own nudity now that harsh daylight was streaming through the windows. Sylar must have bought – or stolen, considering no stores could have been open so late – a new set of clothing with everything else yesterday, because he wore obviously new jeans and a dark blue shirt. 

They ate in silence, Sylar reading the newspaper.

Mohinder ate because his stomach demanded it, though fully aware that it might all come up again in a little while, but it was hard to swallow around the nauseating anxiety of anticipation that closed up his throat. He wanted to laugh hysterically when he considered his situation from the outside. He was quietly having breakfast with his own torturer. He was having breakfast made for him by his torturer.

But this was good. It was buying time. That was the thought that Mohinder was clutching as he sat at the table and tried not to look longingly over at the laptop on the counter. Thompson had assured him that the Company was after Sylar. Well, after Kirby Plaza, they must have intensified the search. And probably caught the man on a dozen video cameras. Surely, it wouldn’t take them long to figure out where he had gone? So if Mohinder could only hang in there long enough ...

_He won’t kill me. It’s just pain. Just a few ribs. I’ll live. And I won’t be an accomplice to murder. Again._

When Sylar suddenly put down the newspaper and turned to Mohinder, the Indian startled so bad that he tipped the bowl of cereal over, and had to ask the other man to repeat what he had said.

Sylar laughed at him and went to get some tissues for the spilled milk.

Mohinder went to the bathroom to wash while Sylar cleared the table. When the Indian came back out, Sylar was waiting for him, leaning on the table with his arms crossed. The laptop was once again open and booted up next to him.

“Not going to change your mind?”

Mohinder shook his head, proud of how steady he was acting. It’s just pain. Temporary.

“Alright then.” Sylar rose, letting his arms fall to his sides. “You remember the safeword?”

“Montana.”

“Good.” He pressed his lips together for a moment. “You’ll probably use it today, but remember, once you use it, you’d better be ready to make that list. Because if you change your mind, we skip straight to stage three.” He held up a hand, and it began to glow. “I’ve already decided what that’s going to be.”

Mohinder focused on inhaling and exhaling. He nodded quickly, not trusting his voice. Then he went ahead of Sylar into the back room, regretfully folding up the blanket and placing it on the mattress. In the adjacent room, Sylar was frowning at the now dried blood staining the floor.

“You’ve made quite a mess in here,” he said when Mohinder joined him.

“I’m so sorry,” Mohinder replied sarcastically, making Sylar grin. “Get me a mop and I’ll get right on it.”

The other man shook his head slowly, still grinning. “Later. We have got a schedule to keep.” He gestured to the rope, and Mohinder came over and extended his hands above his head, allowing himself to be tied up. Sylar tightened the rope until Mohinder was standing on his toes, his body pulled tight, ribcage straining against his skin.

The air thickened with tension again when Sylar put a thoughtful hand low on Mohinder’s stomach, covering several cuts from yesterday. “These won’t scar, if you get them seen to.”

“I’ll make sure to do that then,” Mohinder replied, his voice a little higher than usual.

Sylar nodded thoughtfully, not looking up from his own hand, white against dark skin. He let it slide upwards until he was cupping Mohinder’s side, feeling the ribs. “I like hearing you scream,” he said quietly. “It’s a nice sound. Gives me chills.” He looked up suddenly, met Mohinder’s eyes, and tucked an errant curl behind a dark ear with his free hand. “But I’d just as soon make you scream for other reasons.”

“I don’t-”

“Don’t.” While spoken quietly, the fury and authority behind the single word made Mohinder swallow back what he had meant to say. Sylar’s eyes were dark again. “This is one lie I will not accept from you.” He leaned in, until their lips where almost brushing, and they were breathing the same air. “And I intend to show you just how untrue it is. Soon.”

“Funny,” Mohinder mumbled. “I intend to kill you. Soon.”

Their near-kiss was broken because Sylar began to giggle. “That would really have to be soon,” he said, when he had finally composed himself. “Because once I have the list, I’ll be going after Claire Bennet again, and with her power I will be unstoppable.”

“I’ll never recreate the list!”

There was no sound, just a sudden, blinding pain in his side, and Mohinder screamed, but that made it worse and he had to cut himself off, savagely biting his lower lip and fighting to stop heaving for breath. The room around him was engulfed in wave upon wave of white agony. They rose and fell with the beats of his heart. He was writhing on the end of the rope, still roaring in the back of his throat, and every movement, every breath, made it worse.

Distantly, he heard Sylar’s voice, distracted and fascinated. “The middle ribs are the most commonly injured, and the least dangerous to break, so I’ll limit myself to them. And don’t worry, I set it back properly, so it won’t puncture a lung or anything. It’s just going to hurt a lot.”

When a black wave finally rolled over his vision, Mohinder thanked God.

He came to on his mattress in the next room, with his head in Sylar’s lap. Sylar was running gentle fingers through his hair again, and faintly humming an unfamiliar tune.

Mohinder’s ribs were still throbbing, and it grew worse when he began to breathe more deeply. He focused on limiting the movements of his chest. _You’re doing good. Being brave. Hang in there._

“We have twenty-five minutes left before the next one,” Sylar said, having seen his captive’s eyes open. “I’ll let you decide whether we break one on the opposite side this time, or if we go for the one below the first. I’m pretty sure I can break all your middle ribs without killing you, but we might have to move on to stage three early, just to be safe.”

Tears gathered with increasing pressure behind Mohinder’s eyes, but he fought them down; it would hurt more if he cried.

_Hang in there!_

Sylar smiled down at him affectionately. “I almost wish Chandra could see you now. He’d be so proud. You’re really going the extra mile for these people. And to think they’re going to die anyway, just not in as organised a fashion as they would if I had the list.”

He couldn’t just listen to this. “The Com ... pany ... will find ... us ... and then ... you die.” His voice was strained, and he had to stop to breathe constantly, but anger rang clearly in his words anyway.

“The Company,” Sylar echoed musingly. “I doubt it; they didn’t seem to want me dead last time they had me. And I’ll hear them coming.” He let his head fall back with a satisfied sigh. “I’ll run away, and once they’ve lost the trail, I’ll come back for you.” His voice hardened almost imperceptibly, but enough to give his next words a ring of inevitability and threat. “You’ll never escape from me, Mohinder.”

For the next twenty minutes, Sylar resumed his quiet tune, while Mohinder choked on tears.

The pain was no better, and panic set in when Sylar was once against pulling Mohinder up on his toes, tying his hands. “Please ...” Urgency made him breathe faster, increasing the pain. “You said ... you didn’t ... real– ... –ly ... need-”

“Shhh.” Sylar placed two fingertips over Mohinder’s lips. “You only have to say one word, Mohinder. One word is all it takes. You remember what the word is, don’t you?”

“I won’t - ... I can’t - ... -!”

“Are you sure?” Sylar lifted a hand, placing thumb and middle finger together, preparing.

Mohinder panted, helpless to stop, but the safeword was stuck in his throat, the memories associated with it crowding his mind. Zane’s philosophical questions discussed on the long ride in the car. The shy smiles they had traded when one of them said something daring, something flirty. Dale’s mutilated body bleeding all over the concrete floor. The dread that had flooded him after pulling the trigger and watching the bullet stop in the air, centimetres away from its smiling target. The heat as he was crowded up against the wall moments later and Sylar whispered dirty promises into his ear.

Sylar snapped his fingers.

Mohinder screamed.

~‘’~‘’~

Sylar bound his chest with medical bandages, making Mohinder think that the man must have gone to the hospital to get his shoulder stitched after all. A few of Mohinder’s cuts had opened, and were bound similarly, but Mohinder was most grateful for the painkillers, although he was not given as high a dose as he could have hoped for, since Sylar wanted him awake and alert.

“Let’s get this right the first time, shall we?”

The clothes were nice too. A pair of boxers and a shirt to wear over washed skin. They felt more luxurious than anything he had ever worn in freedom.

The laptop was booted up and placed in front of Mohinder, who looked sluggishly up at Sylar for ... Did he honestly think that he might find some mercy in those cold eyes? Or that he could reason him out of this project _now_?

Mohinder found the program he needed online and began the download. Sylar busied himself with dinner.

Soon algorithms and equations were dancing before Mohinder’s eyes. His fingertips flew over the keyboard, numbness spreading from the pad of each finger, up through the joints, across his knuckles and over the bone in his wrists, working its way slowly up his arms until it, mercifully, reached his brain and he was no longer thinking. There were numbers and letters and chains of meaning and pain when he breathed. Every now and then he would look up and think that Sylar was handsome, but whenever Sylar looked at him Mohinder would stare resolutely at the screen.

After some unknown amount of time, the smell of food penetrated his stupor. Sylar’s worried face was hovering by his shoulder.

“You okay? You look half asleep.”

Mohinder blinked slowly at him. “This is going to take a while.” Going hitched on a pained wince.

Sylar nodded, his lips pressed together. “We’ll break for dinner, and then I think you should sleep a bit.” He removed the laptop while Mohinder was still working up the strength to nod in agreement.

They ate in silence. Mohinder was vaguely grateful that Sylar didn’t try to cheer him up, or make him eat more than the few bites he managed to stomach. Eventually, Sylar rose and took the plates away before leading Mohinder back to his little room.

Mohinder lay down on his side, and Sylar sat down beside him. Once again he began to run gentle fingers through Mohinder’s hair.

“Thank you for helping me, Mohinder. I’m glad you came around.”

“Please don’t,” the Indian murmured, keeping his eyes on the floor.

Sylar leaned down and pressed a warm, open-mouthed kiss to Mohinder’s throat, setting the Indian’s nerves on fire. Probably noticing the positive shudder in the body below him, Sylar didn’t stop, but moved his mouth slowly upwards until he could capture the lobe of a dark ear between his lips. Mohinder moved restlessly on the mattress, heat soaring through his limbs.

Moments later he was on his back and Sylar was unbuttoning Mohinder’s shirt, still taking his sweet time. Mohinder was alarmed to realise that he had moved completely unprovoked, as if he wanted ... because after all he did want ... but it wasn’t allowed ... he was just so tired.

The shirt fell open. Now, surely. Now it would happen.

“Sit up.”

Mohinder opened his eyes, startled.

“Come on.” Sylar helped him sit up and take the shirt off completely. The pale monster was smiling. “It wouldn’t be very comfortable to sleep in.” And he rose from the floor with the shirt in his hand, and Mohinder was bereft, burning, but not angry because sleep was easier, so he sank back onto the mattress, pulled the blanket over himself and fell asleep while the sane part of himself that he had banished to somewhere dark and faraway feared how much time Sylar seemed to think they had at their disposal. Where was the Company? Where was help?

Later he awoke to a few hours more in front of the computer, and then there was blessed sleep again. This time he got to go to bed alone, but not before Sylar had kissed him goodnight, quite thoroughly. It was blood loss that sent Mohinder to bed dizzy, nothing more.

Later it would worry him that it was not concern for his fellows, not the desire to revenge Molly and his father, or even a selfish desire to preserve his own clean conscience that finally stopped him. It was Sylar’s kindness. The realisation that the ice of Mohinder’s hatred was thawing under the heat of the eyes that watched him, the lips that smiled at him, the hands that touched him gently. The understanding that even though Sylar was taking his sweet time, he had a very definite goal in mind, and Mohinder was becoming less and less distressed by the thought of finally arriving there.

So he destroyed the computer. Sylar had gone to the bathroom, and Mohinder waited until he could hear the sound of water running before bringing the laptop over to the kitchen sink. With shaking hands he placed it inside, open and booted up, and then he turned the faucet on. At first nothing happened. Then there came the angry sound of electric pathways short-circuiting. The screen flickered violently and died.

After a few final spasms, the computer was silent. Mohinder leaned against the sink, letting the water run, trembling from head to toe with desperate fear. He knew that Sylar was standing in the doorway behind him. The clock on the wall ticked loudly, and every second he expected violence.

He was startled nearly out of his skin when Sylar placed his hands on Mohinder’s hips. “Oh Mohinder. Why do you have to be so brave?” A soft kiss was placed on the back of his neck, and then Sylar was undoing the buttons on his shirt, removing the privilege of clothes that he had earned through his brief obedience.

When Mohinder turned around, Sylar was smiling. Patiently, sadly. He reached out a hand. “Come on, Mohinder. Let’s go.”

In the torture room there was pain. A trail of fire was blazed across Mohinder’s body, spelling out Sylar’s name.

~‘’~‘’~

“I feel like I’ve hit a dead end.”

By now, the hand running through his damp curls had become a pure comfort, something achingly pleasurable because it was a contrast to the unbearable pain that had been caused by the other hand. Sylar’s voice, quiet and a little hoarse, made him dizzy because he didn’t know what it was supposed to make him feel; terror or desire.

“I could google the Spanish Inquisition for new ideas, but I doubt it would help. You’ve made up your mind.”

Mohinder should feel proud, he should burst with pride; he had beaten Sylar. Sylar was giving up. Mohinder had triumphed, against the most powerful Special he had ever found, without powers of his own, none but his will. But he felt only the pain and the pleasure, blended to an exhausting harmony.

“Guess that means we go right to the final stage.”

And just to prove that Mohinder was still human, fear spiked through him. Death. It had to be death.

Mohinder was unprepared when Sylar turned him over on his back, leaned down and pressed their lips together. It took so long for his brain to catch up that for the duration of the kiss he was completely unresponsive. Sylar eventually sat back and smiled at him. “You’ll need some painkillers.” His eyes shifted away suddenly, growing distant. “No wait ... Time’s up.”

Mohinder whimpered. This time he wasn’t going to wake up. But at least there would be no more pain. And no more caresses. Sylar leaned down one last time and kissed Mohinder’s forehead gently. Then he stood up and walked away.

Mohinder drifted in and out of dreams for a while. Then rescue came.

Their voices were so loud. Mohinder couldn’t summon the energy to move or shout. He really should, though; they might not find him behind the hidden panel. Where had Sylar gone?

Light spilled into the room, turning up the volume of the voices. The floor vibrated under many pairs of feet.

“Clear! We’ve got him!” That voice was familiar.

A blanket was thrown over him and then Matt Parkman was kneeling next to him, while other hands tested his body carefully to map his injuries.

“Mohinder. How are you feeling?”

Mohinder didn’t reply. He thought about Molly.

And, amazingly, Matt smiled. His face was bright in the light from the door. “She’s alive, Mohinder. He didn’t touch her.”

But the blood. There had been blood, but there had been blood for several days now, perhaps he had only imagined ...

“It was your blood. The bloodbag still hung by her bed. He used it to make you think he had gone through with the murder.”

A number of cool, gentle hands lifted him up and placed him on a stretcher. But his head was buzzing with questions. Why would Sylar ...?

Matt was lost for a while in the narrow apartment, but then they were through the door and down some stairs and into the fresh air and Matt returned to his side. He spoke in hushed tones.

“Molly said that Sylar was distracted by your shouting. That in the end he grabbed her neck and did something that made her lose consciousness. She didn’t wake up until I got to her.”

The ambulance was too bright, but after a brief sting of a needle, the pain subsided. Mohinder thought about Sylar’s smile as he drifted off into unconsciousness.


End file.
